by Jo Nesbo
‘We do?’ Bratt put the phone to her ear.
‘You might have seen Japanese women with their teeth dyed black? No? Well, it’s a tradition known as ohaguro. It means “the darkness after the sun has gone down”, and first appeared during the Heian period, around the year AD 800. And … er, shall I go on?’
Bratt gestured impatiently.
‘It’s said that in the Middle Ages there was a shogun in the north who made his soldiers use iron teeth that were painted black. They were mostly to scare people, but could also be used in close combat. If the fighting got so crowded that the soldiers couldn’t use weapons or punch and kick their adversaries, they could use the teeth to bite through their enemies’ throats.’
The detective indicated that her call had been answered. ‘Hi, Gunnar, this is Katrine. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve come straight from home to talk to Professor Smith … yes, the one who sent the tweet. And that I left my phone at home, so if anyone’s been trying to get hold of me …’ She listened. ‘Harry? You’re kidding.’ She listened for a few more seconds. ‘He just walked in and said he’d do it? Let’s talk about it later.’ She handed the phone back to Smith. ‘So, tell me, what’s vampirism?’
‘For that,’ Smith said, ‘I think we should go for a walk.’
Katrine walked alongside Hallstein Smith down the gravel track that led from the house to the barn. He was explaining that his wife had inherited the farm and almost a hectare of land, and that only two generations ago there were cows and horses grazing here in Grini, just a few kilometres from the centre of Oslo. Even so, a smaller plot containing a boathouse on Nesøya that had also formed part of the inheritance was worth more. At least if you were to believe the offers they had received from their filthy rich neighbours.
‘Nesøya’s really too far away to be practical, but we don’t want to sell for the time being. We’ve only got a cheap aluminium boat with a twenty-five horsepower engine, but I love it. Don’t tell my wife, but I prefer the sea to this bit of farmland.’
‘I come from the coast too,’ Katrine said.
‘Bergen, right? I love the dialect. I spent a year working in a psychiatric ward in Sandviken. Beautiful, but so much rain.’
Katrine nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I’ve got drenched in Sandviken before.’
They reached the barn. Smith pulled out a key and undid the padlock.
‘Big lock for a barn,’ Katrine said.
‘The last one was too small,’ Smith said, and Katrine could hear the bitterness in his voice. She stepped through the doorway and let out a small yelp when she put her foot on something that moved. She looked down and saw a rectangular metal plate, one metre by one and a half, set into the cement floor. It felt like it was on springs as it swayed and knocked against the cement edge before settling again.
‘Fifty-eight kilos,’ Smith said.
‘What?’
He nodded to his left, towards a large arrow that was quivering between 50 and 60 on a half-moon-shaped dial, and she realised she was standing on old-fashioned cattle scales. She squinted.
‘Fifty-seven point six-eight.’
Smith laughed. ‘A long way below slaughter weight, anyway. I have to admit that I try to jump across the scales every morning, I don’t like the idea that every day could be my last.’
They carried on past a row of stalls and stopped in front of the door to an office. Smith unlocked it. The room contained a desk with a PC, a window looking out across the field, a drawing of a vampire with big, thin bat’s wings, a long neck and square face. The bookcase behind the desk was half full with files and a dozen or so books.
‘What you see before you is everything that has ever been published on vampirism,’ Smith said, running his hand over the books. ‘So it’s pretty easy to get an overview. But to answer your question, let’s start with Vandenbergh and Kelly, from 1964.’
Smith pulled out one of the books, opened it and read: ‘“Vampirism is defined as the act of drawing blood from an object (usually a love object), and receiving resultant sexual excitement and pleasure.” That’s the dry definition. But you’re after more than that, aren’t you?’
‘I think so,’ Katrine said, and looked at the picture of the vampire. It was a fine piece of art. Simple. Lonely. And it seemed to radiate a chill that instinctively made her pull her jacket tighter.
‘Let’s go a bit deeper,’ Smith said. ‘To start with, vampirism isn’t some newfangled invention. The word obviously refers to the myth about bloodthirsty creatures in human guise, going way back through history, especially in Eastern Europe and Greece. But the modern concept of vampires comes mainly from Bram Stoker’s Dracula in 1897 and the first vampire films of the 1930s. Some researchers mistakenly believe that vampirists – ordinary but sick individuals – are largely inspired by these myths. They forget that vampirism had already been mentioned in this …’ Smith pulled out an old book with a half-disintegrated brown cover. ‘Richard von Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis from 1887 – in other words, before the myth became widely known.’ Smith put it back carefully and pulled out another book.
‘My own research is based on the idea that vampirism is related to such conditions as necrophagia, necrophilia and sadism, just as the author of this book, Bourguignon, also thought.’ Smith opened it. ‘This is from 1983: “Vampirism is a rare compulsive disorder with an irresistible urge for blood ingestion, a ritual necessary to bring mental relief; like other compulsions, its meaning is not understood by the participant.”’
‘So a vampirist just does what vampirists do? They simply can’t act differently?’
‘That’s an oversimplification, but yes.’
‘Can any of these books help us to put together a profile of a murderer who extracts blood from his victims?’
‘No,’ Smith said, replacing Bourguignon’s book. ‘One’s been written, but it’s not on the shelf.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s never been published.’
Katrine looked at Smith. ‘Yours?’
‘Mine,’ Smith said with a sad smile.
‘What happened?’
Smith shrugged. ‘The time wasn’t right for that sort of radical psychology. After all, I was flying in the face of this.’ He pointed at one of the spines on the shelf. ‘Herschel Prins and his article in the British Journal of Psychiatry, 1985. And you don’t get away with that unpunished. I was dismissed because my results were based on case studies rather than empirical evidence. But of course that was impossible when there are so few cases of real vampirism, and the few that are recorded have been diagnosed as schizophrenia because there hasn’t been enough research. I tried, but even newspapers that are more than happy to publish articles about B-list American celebrities thought vampirism was frivolous, sensationalist. And when I had finally collected enough research evidence, that’s when the break-in happened.’ Smith gestured towards the empty shelves. ‘Taking my computer was one thing, but they took all my patient notes too, my entire archive of clients, the whole lot. And now certain malicious colleagues are claiming that I was saved by the bell, and that if my material had been published I would only have exposed myself to more ridicule, because it would have become obvious that vampirists don’t exist.’
Katrine ran her finger across the frame of the picture of the vampire. ‘Who would break in here to steal medical records?’
‘God knows. I assumed it was a colleague. I waited for someone to step forward with my theories and results, but it never happened.’
‘Maybe they were after your patients?’
Smith laughed. ‘I wish them luck with that. They’re so crazy no one else wants them, believe me. They’re only useful as research subjects, not as a way of making a living. If my wife hadn’t been doing so well with her yoga school we wouldn’t have been able to keep hold of the farm and boathouse. Speaking of which, there’s a birthday party going on up at the house that needs a hawk.’
They walked back outside and as Smith locked th
e door to the office Katrine noticed a small surveillance camera fixed to the wall above the stalls.
‘You know the police don’t investigate ordinary break-ins any more?’ she said. ‘Even if you’ve got security camera footage.’
‘I know.’ Smith sighed. ‘That’s for my own peace of mind. If they come back for any of my new material, I want to know which of my colleagues I’m dealing with. I’ve got a camera outside by the gate as well.’
Katrine couldn’t help laughing. ‘I thought academics were bookish, cosy types, not common thieves.’
‘Oh, I’m afraid we do just as many stupid things as less intelligent people,’ Smith said, shaking his head sadly. ‘Myself included, I have to admit.’
‘Really?’
‘Nothing interesting. Just a mistake my colleagues rewarded with a nickname. And it was a long time ago.’ Maybe it was a long time ago, but Katrine still saw the flash of pain dart across his face.
On the steps in front of the farmhouse Katrine handed him a card. ‘If the media call, I’d be very grateful if you don’t mention the fact that we’ve had this conversation. People will only get frightened if they think the police believe there’s a vampire on the loose.’
‘Oh, the media won’t call,’ Smith said, looking at her card.
‘Really? But VG printed what you wrote on Twitter.’
‘They didn’t bother to interview me. Presumably someone remembered that I’ve cried wolf before.’
‘Cried wolf?’
‘There was a murder back in the nineties where I’m pretty certain a vampirist was involved. And another case three years ago, I don’t know if you remember it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘No, that one didn’t get many headlines either. Which was lucky, I suppose.’
‘So this would be the third time you’ve cried wolf?’
Smith nodded slowly and looked at her. ‘Yes. This is the third time. So the list of my failings is pretty long.’
‘Hallstein?’ called a woman’s voice from inside the house. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Just a moment, darling! Sound the hawk alarm! Caw, caw, caw!’
As Katrine walked towards the gate she heard the sound of voices getting louder behind her. Hysteria in advance of a massacre of doves.
9
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
AT 3 P.M. Katrine had a meeting with Krimteknisk, at 4 p.m with the forensics officer, both equally depressing, then at 5 p.m with Bellman in the Police Chief’s office.
‘I’m pleased you’ve responded positively to us bringing in Harry Hole, Bratt.’
‘Why wouldn’t I? Harry’s our most experienced murder detective.’
‘Some detectives might regard it as – what’s the word I’m looking for? – challenging, to have such a big name from the past looking over their shoulder.’
‘Not a problem – I always play with my cards on the table, sir.’ Katrine gave a brief smile.
‘Good. Anyway, Harry’s going to be leading his own small, independent team, so you needn’t worry about him taking over. Just a bit of healthy competition.’ Bellman put his fingertips together. She noticed that one of the white patches formed a band around his wedding ring. ‘And naturally, I’ll be cheering on the female participant. I hope we can count on a quick result, Bratt.’
‘I see,’ Katrine Bratt said, and glanced at her watch.
‘I see, what?’
She heard the irritation in his voice. ‘I see: you’re hoping for a quick result.’
She knew she was provoking the Chief of Police. Not because she wanted to. Because she couldn’t help it.
‘And you should be hoping for the same thing, Detective Inspector Bratt. Positive discrimination or not, jobs like yours don’t grow on trees.’
‘I’ll have to do my best to prove that I deserve it, then.’
She kept her eyes fixed on his. It was as if the eyepatch emphasised his uninjured eye, its intensity and beauty. And the hard, ruthless glint in it.
She held her breath.
Then he suddenly laughed. ‘I like you, Katrine. But let me give you a piece of advice.’
She waited, ready for anything.
‘At the next press conference, you should do the talking, not Hagen. I want you to underline the fact that this is an extremely difficult case, that we have no leads, and that we need to be prepared for a lengthy investigation. That will make the media less impatient and they’ll give us more room for manoeuvre.’
Katrine folded her arms. ‘It might also embolden the killer and make him more likely to strike again.’
‘I don’t think the killer is governed by what the papers say, Bratt.’
‘If you say so. Well, I have to prepare the next meeting of the investigative team.’
Katrine saw the note of warning in the way he looked at her.
‘Go ahead. And do as I say. Tell the media that this case is the most difficult you’ve had.’
‘I …’
‘In your own words, obviously. When’s the next press conference?’
‘We’ve cancelled today’s seeing as we haven’t got anything new.’
‘OK. Remember, if the case is presented as difficult, the glory will be all the greater when we solve it. And we won’t be lying, because we haven’t actually got anything, have we? Besides, the media love a big, horrifying mystery. See it as a win-win situation, Bratt.’
Win-fucking-win, Katrine thought as she walked down the stairs to Crime Squad on the sixth floor.
At 6 p.m., Katrine opened the meeting of the investigative team by stressing the importance of reports being written and registered in the system promptly, because this hadn’t been done after the first interview with Geir Sølle, Elise Hermansen’s Tinder date the night she was murdered, with the result that a second detective had contacted Geir Sølle.
‘For one thing, it makes extra work, as well as giving the public the impression that the police are disorganised, and that our right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing.’
‘There must be something wrong with the computers, or the system,’ Truls Berntsen said, even though Katrine hadn’t mentioned him by name. ‘I know I sent it.’
‘Tord?’
‘There haven’t been any system failures reported in the last twenty-four hours,’ Tord Gren said, adjusting his glasses and noting the look in Katrine’s eye, which he interpreted correctly. ‘But of course there may be something wrong with your computer, Berntsen – I’ll take a look at it.’
‘Seeing as you’ve started, Tord, could you take us through your latest strokes of genius?’
The IT expert blushed, nodded, and went on in a stiff, unnatural tone of voice, as if he were reading from a script. ‘Location services. Most people who have a mobile phone permit one or more of the apps on their device to collect data on where they are at all times, many of them without knowing that they’ve allowed this.’
Pause. Tord swallowed. And Katrine realised that he was doing precisely that: reading from a script he had written and learned off by heart after Katrine had said she would be asking him to give a presentation to the group.
‘Many of the apps demand, as part of their terms and conditions, the right to be able to send details of the phone’s location to third parties, but not to the police. One such commercial third party is Geopard. They gather location data, and have no clause in their own contract prohibiting them from selling the information to the public sector or, in other words, to the police. When people who have served prison sentences for sexual offences are released, we gather contact details – address, mobile number, email address – because we routinely want to be able to get hold of these individuals in the event of further offences similar to those for which they were convicted. Because it used to be generally assumed that sex offenders are the most likely to reoffend. New research has shown this to be completely wrong: rape actually has one of the lowest reoffending rates. BBC Radio 4 recently reported that the chance of offend
ers being rearrested is sixty per cent in the USA and fifty per cent in the UK. And often for the same offence. But not for rape. Statistics from the US Justice Department show that 78.8 per cent of those convicted of stealing a motor vehicle are rearrested for the same offence within three years, for those convicted of trading in stolen goods the figure is 77.4 per cent, and so on. But the same thing only applies to 2.5 per cent of convicted rapists.’ Tord paused again. Katrine presumed he had noticed that the group had limited patience for this sort of discursive presentation. He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, when we send our batch of contact data to Geopard, they can map the movements of these people’s phones, assuming they use location-tracking apps, at any given time and at any given place. On Wednesday evening, for instance.’
‘How precisely?’ Magnus Skarre called.
‘Down to a few square metres,’ Katrine said. ‘But the GPS is only two-dimensional, so we can’t see elevation. In other words, we don’t know what floor the phone is on.’
‘Is this actually legal?’ wondered Gina, one of the analysts. ‘I mean, privacy legislation—’
‘—is struggling to keep up with technology,’ Katrine interrupted. ‘I’ve spoken to our legal department, and they say it’s a grey area, but that it isn’t covered by existing legislation. And, as we know, if something isn’t illegal, then …’ She held her hands out, but no one in the room was willing to finish the sentence for her. ‘Go on, Tord.’
‘Once we received authorisation from our lawyers and financial authorisation from Gunnar Hagen, we bought a set of location data. The maps from the night of the murder give us GPS positions for ninety-one per cent of people who have previously been convicted of sex offences.’ Tord stopped, and seemed to think.
Katrine realised that he had reached the end of his script. She didn’t understand why a gasp of delight hadn’t gone round the room.
‘Don’t you understand how much work this has saved us? If we used the old method to write off this many potential suspects from a case—’
She heard a low cough. Wolff, the oldest of the detectives. Should have been pensioned off by now. ‘Seeing as you said “write off”, presumably that means the map didn’t show a match for Elise Hermansen’s address?’